


He Grins Red

by Hellcat_Mary



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Post-Season/Series 10, Stream of Consciousness, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24346489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hellcat_Mary/pseuds/Hellcat_Mary
Summary: Mickey’s taken a beating already.  It was a bad one, but he can stand a sustained beatdown better than most.  Can even walk away from it, most of the time.It shouldn’t have been a shock, when it happened.And now all he can think about is how much he loves Ian Gallagher.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 17
Kudos: 140





	He Grins Red

**Author's Note:**

> So. Shameless has me by the proverbial balls. Again.  
> I don't know what's going to happen in season 11, but I don't think Terry's going to let it go. 
> 
> Tried to keep the language in-character, so violence, swearing, some made up cuss words. It's Mickey.
> 
> Self-edited. Unbetaed. Short.
> 
> (P.S, the very, very end is because I may or may not write another short one after this. But in case I don't.)

It’s strange, how a person's mind fixates when they’re pretty sure it’s the end. 

Or at least, when someone is in such deep shit their brain has completely vaulted over panic, or even shut down, and straight into _hey this is fucking curtains, so let’s reminisce a fucking moment, cuz you know what shit I’ve been wanting to bring up?_

Like right here, right in this moment, with his blurred ass vision, tears and blood dripping into and over and from his eyes, with the sensation of pain fading from blinding and confusing, to distant and still fucking confusing because what the _fuckshit_ is that _grinding_? Oh fuck, a rib, probably? 

Mickey’s taken a beating already. It was a bad one, but he can stand a sustained beatdown better than most. Can even walk away from it, most of the time. 

It shouldn’t have been a shock, when it happened. 

His father doesn’t idly threaten to kill him in so many grotesque ways, violent images slung about with language as colorful as a fucking rainbow – and Mickey’s a smartass, so maybe doesn’t know the verbs or proper fuckin' _nouns_ for it, but he does like to call out ironic shit when he sees it. 

He forgets, now, how he actually worded the crack he’d made, but it was probably fucking great and his husband would find it funny if he could tell him later. He likes saving little snippets of conversations that he knows Ian will laugh at. Because no matter what other disparaging shit people can say about how good or not good for him Mickey is or isn’t, they cannot deny that he makes Ian laugh more than _anybody._ Mickey wears that like it's a badge, highest fucking honors. His Purple god damn Heart. 

Had to have been a small infraction considering all the words passed between Terry and his faggot son these years. But running his mouth this time… it seemed to be the thing that pushed Terry over. Crossed that final line or something.

In an instant, Terry went from the rabid pitbull that Mickey could bare his teeth and joke about, to the boogeyman that Mickey remembers from his longest childhood nights. The reason he'd been scared his whole pissing life. Violent energy subdued, shoulders set, anger morphing from uncontrolled wildfire to cool steel. Mickey’s shuttered terror became real again, when he squinted through the blood and swelling into a familiar pair of hard, dispassionate eyes. Eyes that could watch his son get whipped around by some goons of the week. Impassive, because the disappointing little cock smoker getting whipped around was not his son.

It shouldn’t have been a shock.

The knife slipped in like butter, and then cut up like cleaving meat and yeah. It probably hit a rib. Mickey’s stomach and chest hitch, breath frozen on a choked off inhale. His whole body jerks with the motion of the weapon. He swears he can feel the clack of the knife teeth against his bones when it pulls out. An actual _steak knife. S_ omeone stabbed him like a god damn _Porterhouse,_ sons of whore fucking _SHIT._

Then they do it again. And again. The shock is cold and the pain is hot. He doesn’t have breath to scream. The sting of Chicago winter and the fists abusing him of it. They were smart, he guesses, waiting for bleak, tit freezing December. No one’s around to hear him anyway. 

His gaze droops for just a hot second, going tunnel vision with the abrupt ruptures to his torso, concentration drifting. He spots the gleaming flash of the gore covered knife. It’s real.

This is it.

And his fucked up brain is stuck on the steak knife. Not how to grab it, or escape it, or even the actual steak knife that’s been serrating the fucking muscle inside his own skin at that moment.

He’s thinking about the last time he’d had a steak. Looked at a knife like it. It was a fancy shit restaurant that was so up its own ass _his_ asshole puckered in discomfort. But Ian liked that shit; liked taking them out and pretending they had money and class neither of them had ever sniffed. He liked pretending he didn’t squirrel away chunks of his paycheck for months just to take Mickey to dinner. 

And Ian had been so god damn handsome. Dressed up, hair slicked back, button down and ironed slacks, eyes bright and sly. All smiles and fuckin' gentlemen-like in that rakish, rumble in the street way he had, and just wanting to woo the shit out of his husband. Like it took any effort to do. Like Ian needed to lift a finger for Mickey to feel lucky and alive and hot for him all the fucking time. 

It had been Mickey’s birthday. That romantic asshole.

And now all he can think about is how much he loves Ian fucking Gallagher. Sappy Bitch. Tough, earnest, southside, batshit crazy, _handsome_ son of a bitch.

It’s like his brain revs the engine and releases the clutch. Every memory he’s ever had of that ginger fuck he loves so much is on a drag to the finish. Because he doesn’t get to go home to Ian tonight. He doesn’t get to leave this fucking back alley shitsqual Terry and his thugs dragged him behind. He’s getting loopy, breathing is getting wet, throat clogged up. He knows he’s bleeding out and has maybe minutes. So what can he do? What can he fucking do but think about Ian, and be fucking sorry because this is going to hurt him so bad. He wishes he didn’t know this was going to break Ian. He fucking made vows _promising_ not to break Ian.

Irrationally, he wants to ask someone to call the Gallaghers, every one of them that’s worth a shit, so they can rally and just fucking be there to catch the shit when Ian is told Mikhailo Gallagher is dead. He just wants someone to be there to catch him, because Mickey can’t. He would if he could, but he _can’t._ This fucking sucks.

The alley is closing in. His legs aren’t holding him anymore, he’s pressed back to the brick by his assailants. He’s slipping on the ice over the pavement and his own blood over the ice.

He thinks, _I love you._ He thinks, _I love you._

Staring into the eyes of his father, his father who is literally _murdering_ him, and all he can think about still is the man he loves. That Terry could not batter the love out of him. Cannot kill it.

He spits in his father’s face and grins red.

_"Base to Thirty-Eight. Emergency response needed to Fourty-Eight-Fifty South Justine Street. Local bystanders report a possible stabbing, victim found in alley behind Chuck’s. Adult male, last reported breathing but unresponsive and hemorrhaging. Will need transport to closest trauma center."_

“And here I was just about to be thankful for a slow night. Load up, Gallagher.”


End file.
